Hallelujah
by Norimn
Summary: She is an assassin, the Black Widow, and nothing else-agent of SHIELD and Avenger are just fancy titles without much other meaning to them than the letters they are put together of. She kills for a living, and she can't care. Her line of work simply doesn't allow such feelings, and least of all towards another person.


**A/N: **So, while a friend of mine and I casually browsed tumblr, we stumbled across a gif-set of Jeremy Renner sitting at a piano, singing a song about the Avengers. Upon watching it on youtube, an idea came to mind - what if Clint played the piano? And, yeah, this is what happened. I recommend listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley while reading.

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With expressionless features, she forces her frozen stare away from the view of the New York skyline. Although living with the rest of the team has grown on her since the alien attack, she can't allow herself to get attached. Her line of work simply doesn't allow such feelings, and least of all towards another person. Sentimentality is but a display of weakness. Her eyes glide absentmindedly over the equipment laid out on the floor-arms and ammunition, suit… everything needed for the upcoming mission, but at the same time everything that makes up who she is. She is an assassin, the Black Widow, and nothing else-agent of SHIELD and Avenger are just fancy titles without much other meaning to them than the letters they are put together of. She kills for a living, and she can't care. Such luxuries are reserved for the majority.

Her eyes flicker to the digital watch on her bed stand, informing her with its red numbers, shining and blinding in the otherwise blackened room, that she has a few hours. The Black Widow is never worried about a mission. She goes through them as a master artist crafts a perfect rendition of the piece of the world surrounding him. As in a dream, she kills shadows and outruns sharp sounds of bullets, hides in imaginative safe-havens and comes back in one piece held together by the suppression of everything that she has sensed. Natasha Romanoff has faith in her own skills for the most part, but some missions cannot be labeled ordinary. She rarely considers the possibility that she won't come back, and she tries her best to avoid contemplating the impact it will have on the other resident superheroes if it ever happens.

Arms crossed over her chest, she takes a deep breath and lets her eyes wander to the view of the skyline once again. This is where she ought to belong. For some reason, these people care about her, even if they are aware that she can't allow herself to return the favor wholly. The thought that it will affect them if she doesn't return scares her. Before the Avengers, she considered herself an affordable loss, another one in the row should something go wrong, but only on the condition that she fulfilled her goal. Missions with a high risk-factor have always been a favorite of hers-they make her feel alive, of use and purposeful. And then there was the minuscule chance and hope that she would find peace. It was always unlikely and often impossible, but during most missions, a faint spark of envy towards the dead sent a pang through her, and yet she always pushed herself to her limits to ensure success. Failing others has never been a concern before, and thus she could allow herself to feel as such. Even after she was partnered with Clint Barton, she never thought it would be a big deal if one day she wasn't there to do more missions by his side. But everything had started changing since she moved in with the Avengers. Now Clint wasn't just a partner she completed missions with-he was a part of her everyday life, however twisted that might be considering the household, and he hadn't once shown disinterest in her wellbeing. Thus, Natasha worries about this particular mission-because she knows that it is among the most dangerous and outrageously insane ones she has been granted to date. She won't be unsuccessful, but she knows that she might pull herself down with whomever she is assigned to get rid of, considering the circumstances of it all. This is not just another mobster or lunatic serial killer with a would-be army behind them. This is nothing she was ever officially trained for, but capable of doing nonetheless, even if the cost is her own life.

Another glance at the watch. Time is running out. She lets her arms fall down and hang lifeless by her sides for a moment before she in a fluid motion grabs the suit from the floor. Right now, she is Natasha-civilian clothes, unarmed. In a moment, she will be the Black Widow-coldblooded killer, soundless and lethal. She throws the suit on her bed, and starts unbuttoning the shirt when a soft, deep sound, muffled by walls, catches her ear. Freezing for a moment, she mentally goes through the whereabouts of the residents. Stark is at some fundraiser. The Captain is usually in the gym a few floors under her at this time of the night. Banner is sleeping, drinking tea or playing mad scientist, all of which would either take place a floor or two above or below her. Thor has not yet returned from Asgard. Nobody should be close enough for her to hear them, except Clint. She sincerely doubts the archer would be too far away considering where she's going in the too near future-but even if he is comparatively close, he would prefer silence.

Figuring that both shouting out, asking Jarvis and cocking a gun would be loud enough to alarm whatever she had heard, she carefully steps into the hallway and strains her ears to listen. It is there again-the same sound, followed by another, and another. She moves slowly towards the source of it, making out more and more as she closes in. Her mind goes through a multitude of possibilities from mice to aliens on its own accord, but excludes them as quickly as it comes up with them. Neither fits the repetitive sound, broken only by a few deeper ones. A rhythm. A slightly opened door lets a narrow streak of dim light fall upon the floor in the hallway, and she inches closer. As she reaches the source of the light, she listens motionlessly for another short while until realization dawns. She recognizes the sounds. The fourth, the fifth. The minor fall and the major lift. Cautiously, she leans closer to the slight gap between doorframe and door, and stares incredulously for a second before withdrawing and pressing herself against the wall next to the door. Sinking down, back never disconnected from the solid plane behind her, she eventually finds herself sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees and eyes closed. She never knew Clint played the piano.

The tones hit her one by one, and she absorbs them as a sponge does water, taking them in and putting them together as a puzzle to form a coherent melody. It feels like the world has stopped, and everything that exists is the sounds emanating from the piano in the room beside her, created by the man she thought she knew so well. The choice of music alone is enough to tell her that she doesn't. She forms the words that go along in her head, but they never leave her mouth-she is afraid that if she dares move or otherwise make her presence known, the endless moment will suffocate, and she will once again be about to head on the mission that might be her last. A fear that she hasn't felt in a very long time overwhelms her, and eventually breaks down her guard. The world starts spinning again as she heaves in a sharp, abrupt breath and the music ceases, willing her eyes to open and present her with a slurred version of the wall in front of her. She fights to suppress the stinging feeling, and when footsteps approach the door, every fiber in her body tells her to run and not let him see her like this. Not when the end could be so close.

The streak of light is broadened as the door opens, obscured by the figure blocking its source. She doesn't care. This is no different from putting her life at stake. She can't afford to care about what he feels or thinks, and least of all what she does herself, so she doesn't move when he squats beside her, doesn't turn her head to look at him. She doesn't reject him when he falls to his knees with a light thump and his arms encircle her, pulling her against his chest. She's simply there, void of emotion as he whispers into her hair: "I love you." An equal statement would be adequate, but she can't muster the energy to say anything, let alone feel. She is utterly empty and drained, as if the essence of her being has been ripped out of her and traded for a gaping hole. When she leaves, she will never see him again, that much she has come to terms with. She doesn't know if she would have made a different call when SHIELD offered her the mission-for this was not one of those they haphazardly assigned-if she had known that he cared about her on another level than partner or team-mate. He repeats his declaration, voice breaking between the second and third word, and in that moment, she almost believes that she will come back. That she will spend more time with him. Wishes that it is possible.

It hits her that she has no clue whether the rest of the team is aware that this is a one-way trip, and concludes that they aren't. The only reason why Clint is must be that he knows her better than she ever expected. He has learned to read her thoughts by the way she poses, the things she says and the way she looks at her surroundings. Maybe there is a god above, although it's hard to believe in times like these. No matter how hard she hopes they'll be stuck in time and not move with the world, she knows what's coming is inevitable. Love is not a victory march. It's a shortcut to having your situational sense thrown into an abyss, and it's a broken hallelujah.

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**A/N: **Reviews etc are greatly appreciated, should anyone feel like making me ridiculously happy.


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